


Black

by ivanattempts



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Hints of Sherstrade if you look at it right., M/M, Mentions of possible alcoholism.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-14
Updated: 2013-01-14
Packaged: 2017-11-25 12:59:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/639164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivanattempts/pseuds/ivanattempts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: "Mycroft/Lestrade, black. (and if you could please make it angsty? If not, that’s okay too. Thank you :D)"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black

Things had been different, since Sherlock’s death.

Of course they were, to think otherwise would just be fooling themselves; how could anything ever be the same, after that?

Though Lestrade hated to admit it, there was a growing sense of…bitterness in him, coming into this third year. He’d trusted Sherlock, always, and no, he didn’t believe everything the man had ever said had been a lie. But three years was a long time to go on believing in a ghost, and while he’d always been there for Sherlock when he’d needed something, where was Sherlock now, when the roles were reversed?

He’d lost rank after that whole fiasco. Donovan was in charge now-and he didn’t fault her for that, Sally was a good woman who took her position seriously, and was no doubt doing good things. But the loss of his position had weighed heavily on him, and on Mycroft as well, who, with all his string-pulling, hadn’t been able to stop the rearrangement.

“I did  _try_ , Gregory. You mustn’t mope about so.”

“You’re oddly cheery this morning.”

“I’m not, you’re just angrier than usual. You’ve nearly torn holes in the paper from gripping it so hard.”

“I’m not a morning person.”

“You’re dwelling on it.”

“And why shouldn’t I?” The shout was sudden, and the hush that fell afterwards was nearly deafening. Mycroft paused in stirring his tea, and raised his eyes in a reproachful manner. Lestrade’s cheeks colored with shame.

“You’ve been drinking again.”

The accusation was quiet, and made Lestrade’s stomach twist with guilt.

“You can’t possibly know that.”

“Can’t I? You’re unshaven and rough-spoken. When you arrived last night, your clothes were haphazardly done up, and your tie was crooked. You hardly said ‘Hullo’ before you had your hands on me. “

“What are you trying to say?”

“Well, frankly, my dear, you’re letting yourself go. You’re being a bit of a slob, as of late.”

“And you’re being a snob.” The quick retort horrified him; Mycroft paused in stirring his tea once more, and didn’t respond for a long moment. Finally, he pulled the spoon from his cup, tapped it against the rim to remove the tea clinging to it, and sat it on a napkin.

“Perhaps I am, but you didn’t mind that, when this first started.”

“Sherlock was alive when this first started.”

Mycroft stood then; his patience with the former DI, apparently, had worn through.

“Sometimes I rather wonder if it was my brother you loved rather than myself, Gregory.”

Lestrade was at a loss for words as the man exited the room, his tea still sitting on the table, in reality a deep shade of brown, but which appeared black at this angle. He’d not even put the cream in it yet.

He didn’t think he’d ever seen Mycroft simply leave a cup of tea to sit.

_Way to go, Greg._

He lowered his head into his hands and rubbed at his face for a moment before he stood.

Right. Time to make amends.


End file.
